


I Don't Care If You Kneel

by Filigranka



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Banter, Dubious Consent, Enemies With Benefits, Facial Shaving, Hand Jobs, Hate Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-09
Updated: 2017-08-09
Packaged: 2018-12-09 12:15:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11668920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Filigranka/pseuds/Filigranka
Summary: ‘I know humans are a terribly overemotional species, but to try kill yourself just to spit on my efforts to heal you? It’s a little extreme.’Roche would recognise that damn voice anywhere. He was fucked through and through.





	I Don't Care If You Kneel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wednesday](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wednesday/gifts).



> Thanks for Isis for beta!

Roche woke up feeling a fuzzy mist in his head—and then immediately woke up for real, alert and suspicious. He shouldn’t be waking up in a nice bed, dressed in a fine linen nightshirt. He should be waking up dressed in his uniform, lying on his own coat or on some decaying hay. If he woke up at all.

Last he remembered, his wound from that damn Dol Blathanna – Carbon line was finally killing him. The wound hadn’t been so bad in itself; he had managed to survive more than a week with it, after all. It had been the injury plus their defeat, plus organising their retreat, plus then, somehow, organising some sort of opposition and underground forces. In the midst of all that he just hadn’t had time and resources for proper treatment, so he’d downplayed the extend of his wounds and driven pain away with rage and the alcohol. He’d downplayed them well, for even Ves had noticed how bad they were, when they already looked and stank rather badly despite all the vodka and fire Roche, clenching his teeth, had cleaned them with.

She yelled at him. He yelled back: she was a soldier and she should listen to his orders. And his orders were, “Don’t care about me, I just need to organise this mess into some semblance of Temerian forces before I die, damn it and thank you.”

He had really thought so. They hadn’t got money or much that could be exchanged for a food or a bed. People had been afraid that] helping Northerner soldiers might get them into trouble—and rightly so. Roche’s reputation hadn’t helped, either.

So, when he’d closed his eyes last time—not for sleep, frankly, but rather for vodka-, exhaustion- and infection-induced unconsciousness—he had half-expected not to open them again.

Not to mention that he, Ves and a few other soldiers had been sheltering from rain in the middle of the forest, in some elven ruins he’d known from his Squirrels-pursuing days. And now he was lying on a bed.

A nice, soft bed, to boot. It had a linen sheets and some pillows. And he was lying under a fucking quilt. Warm quilt. Reasonably clean, not-stinking quilt. He was sober, and his side didn’t hurt as badly as it had been. His throat was dry like Zerrikanian sand, but there was some light beer on the nightstand—he drank it slowly, so as not to upset his stomach—and a basin with water on a stand. Every-fucking-thing.

Somebody had obviously taken care of him. And Ves wasn’t here—not that she would have the money needed to acquire such a luxury. There could be only one conclusion: he was thoroughly fucked. He just didn’t know by whom and in what manner, yet.

He gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t get any information lying under the damn quilt, no matter how warm and comfortable it was and how weak and light-headed he felt, so—

The rumble of Roche’s fall to the floor was a bloody good rumble. The wake-up-the-dead kind of rumble. He might have overestimated his strength a little, he decided, grabbing the bed’s frame and pulling himself to his feet, this time slower—

‘I know humans are a terribly overemotional species, but to try kill yourself just to spit on my efforts to heal you? It’s a little extreme.’

Roche would recognise that damn voice anywhere. He was fucked through and through. But he refused to be fucked on his knees, tangled in the quilt and pillows.

‘Where’s Ves?’ he spat, trying to look dignified while carefully rising to his feet and then, still carefully, sitting on the bed.

‘Unhurt and untouched.’ Iorveth watched his efforts, his eyes positively gleaming from amusement. ‘She and your other people.’ He looked much better than during their meeting under Flotsam. Better clothes, better skin and hair, a little more fat on his bones. Even a fancy eye-patch to hide his damaged face. Promotion from terrorist son-of-a-bitch to a state son-of-a-bitch did wonders, apparently.

Roche couldn't help but wonder if he now looked as bad as the elf had then. But he shook it off almost immediately. It had nothing to do with Temeria. It didn’t matter.

‘I want to see her,’ he demanded, moving himself to the right. Just a little, but enough to slide away from Iorveth’s narrower vision. Iorveth would have to either turn his face or accept that he wouldn’t be seeing him. The first would be a display of a weakness; the second would definitely make him uncomfortable.

‘Understandable sentiment. Some might even say “noble”. But I have no illusions about your kind.’ Iorveth, as usual, overdramatically drawled every fucking sentence. But he turned his head a little.

‘That isn’t the answer I want.’ Roche used his favourite interrogation voice: gentle, silk, with a lethal threat wrapped in all that smoothness. This situation might not be an interrogation, but he knew that it’s much easier to take someone from the torture cell than to take the torture cell from someone. And Iorveth had been through a lot of interrogations.

The elf stilled for a second, but before Roche could congratulate himself, Iorveth burst into laughter. It wasn’t the prettiest sight, at least from the perspective of conventional beauty—his facial scar moved, too, looking like a fresh wound, constantly opening and closing—but Roche had seen much worse. Battle scars he could respect, admire even... Although maybe not in this _particular_ case.

‘None of Scoia’tael would dream of such luxurious conditions while in your kind hands, Dh’oine.’ He gestured towards the bed. ‘But I appreciate this little trip down memory lane.’ He came closer, slowly, stopping just one step from Roche. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll see her. Alive and well. I’ve no intention of hurting any of you.’

It would have been reassuring, if Iorveth had used the word “promise”. But Roche knew that Squirrels could be very, very literal. “No intention of hurting” didn’t necessarily mean “I won’t be forced to hurt’; and “alive and well when you see her” didn’t mean “and she will stay this way”.

‘When I’ll see her?’

‘When the time comes. Soon. When I decide so. This is the way your lot usually answer, right? Roche, please, there are more pressing questions you should be asking.’

 _You can’t be more of a condescending arsehole, can you?_  Roche sighed, shifting himself on the tower of pillows. It was humiliating, really, to be seen in such a position, but fainting would be even worse—and he hadn’t eaten much that day before he had lost consciousness. Which had been—damn.

‘How long did I stay unconscious?’

‘Oh, finally.’ Iorveth clapped slowly. ‘Unconscious from the infection—a few hours mostly. We found you and your soldiers soon after. Unconscious from the medicine we gave you—about four and a half days. Otherwise you would have made a fuss and worsened your injuries.’

‘So you decided it’s better to put me into some magical coma and transport me and my soldiers to—‘ Damn, again.

‘Getting better, are we? Miechaszka. Vergen’s outskirts. Vergen’s developing very quickly.’ There was a hint of pride in his voice.

In fact, Vergen had too-solid walls for rapid development, so what was really developing were nearby villages, Roche knew. He knew exactly where Miechaszka lay, too. Geography was rather crucial in his job. And asking good questions even more so—so now he tried to focus and do his damn job, even if he still felt a little dizzy.

‘How are you planning to use me?’

‘Straight to the point? No interrogators’ foreplay from the famous Vernon Roche? I’m rather disappointed.’

‘You’re in power now, little Squirrel.’ Well, Iorveth wanted interrogation and Roche was nothing if not eager to give him one. ‘Or would you prefer “son of a bitch”? That’s what gets you going in the bedroom, ah?’

It earned him a nonchalant, backhanded smack to the face. Not even strong, not only because of all these pillows, so Roche deducted that the elf was more amused than enraged, and the hit was merely for decorum.

‘The most useful reminder.’ Iorveth’s voice changed a little, deepened; even his usual overdramatisation couldn’t hide it completely. ‘Thank you.’

Not for decorum only, Roche corrected himself, also satisfaction. Pleasure. Just like in Flotsam. Observation confirmed, “son of a bitch” didn’t get the elf going, but the power—definitely. Roche just hadn’t thought he would ever need this knowledge again. Squirrels didn’t matter now. Or so he’d presumed.

The elf looked at his hand, amused.

‘We should do something with your beard. I know Dh’oine are covered in fur, like monkeys, but I’m not going to get my hand scratched every time you say something inappropriate.’

‘My beard—’ hardly a beard, really, more like a few days bristle, ‘—is a part of my guerrilla camouflage.’

‘It’s not working. And it’s terrible unhygienic. I think I might have caught a louse just now.’

‘Unless your use for me is physical in nature, I don’t see a problem.’

Iorveth sighed. ‘I know Dh’oine think only about sex, and you have an additional inclination to it, but no, I’ve at least few other uses for this dubious blessing of your presence. But your camouflage is aesthetically unpleasant. We Aen Seidhe—’

‘—live in the slums or fight in the forest, both places full of insects and dirt, eat scraps and roots or die from hunger, but have oh-so-high aesthetic needs that my beard is offending them. Sure. Cut off my head for this crime. Or go screw yourself.’

‘Why the head? I thought you wanted to live for Temeria, not commit honourable suicide? The beard would be enough.’ He opened the drawer, started searching through it. ‘We have very good inns in Vergen. Fully equipped, luxurious and prepared for every occasion. Aesthetically challenged Dh’oine including. Aha!’

The drawer was evidently hiding a whole set of shaving equipment—razor, brush, soap, little towel. Of fucking course. Like Dol Blathanna, Vergen had announced neutrality, and neutrality meant de facto supporting Nilfgaard. Squirrels had been Nilfgaard’s allies in the previous war, and even if it just used them and then betrayed them, it had no reason to not very loudly, graciously, and splendidly help them now. This also placated some of the Nilfgaardian officers, enraged by the fact that the Empire had extradited Vrihedd’s soldiers back then.

In short: Vergen had money now. Money, merchants, engineers, dwarven bankers, Nilfgaardian diplomats. Their inns were probably prepared for an unexpected friendly visit from the Emperor.

Roche tried very hard not to think about all the twists of fate. ‘Thanks.’ He extended his hand.

Iorveth's eyebrows rose.

‘But you’re wounded. Your hand might slip and you'd hurt yourself. And what kind of host would allow that? I’ll help you.’

Roche cursed and said “no”. It didn’t stop the elf, of course, and so Roche fell into angry silence. The situation was humiliating enough already—useless struggling would only make it worse.

Iorveth’s fingers grasped him under his chin, lifting it with a false gentleness, their warmth felt even through the wet cloth and the soap. Then the fucking razor coming to his face, touching his skin. The intimacy of the situation—the dark, barely hidden hunger in Iorveth’s eyes, a hunger Roche knew all too well from his childhood—this was one of the most degrading things he had ever had to endure. Or, at least, in the decades after his childhood. Even that damn moment in Flotsam, with Iorveth standing above him with a triumphant smile, had been better.

Roche gritted his teeth. The elf could just as well call him a whore. Roche certainly felt like one. Frankly, being fucked would be easier; fucking and killing were the easiest things under the sun. His life had made him indifferent to them—to most physical acts—long ago. But lying on a soft mattress, weak and helpless, being mockingly treated by some wretched Squirrel was, un-fuck-tunately, a completely different matter.

His body reacted differently, too. Roche had always been able to stay calm during sex, pretending whatever was useful for him to pretend in the situation, feeling mostly blasé. There was some physical pleasure, but it hadn’t felt so different from the pleasure of drinking good wine or eating good, unspoiled food after a long and harsh winter. In fact, Roche would argue the second was much better than anything sex had to deliver.

It was different, now. He felt the tingling in his whole body, all of his muscles tensed and twitching. It wasn’t a pleasant feeling per se; it was, however, encompassing and distracting, grounding him in reality. Humiliation, helplessness, and danger mixed together and pulsed in his throat—in his chest—in his damn stomach. He decided to not call it arousal, but still, it was something close enough, and therefore shameful and unwanted.

‘Relax.’ Iorveth’s fingers slid along his newly shaved jaw and came to the throat, leaving a warm trail through the foam. ‘In case the Dh’oine’s doctors have never discovered it, I must inform you that stress is unhealthy. I’m not going to hurt you.’

‘I know,’ Roche bit out through his teeth. He wasn’t lying. He knew Iorveth wanted to play mind games. He wanted to devour the feeling of power, not kill him. Just like in fucking Flotsam. Everything was just like it had been then, except worse.

Of course, this knowledge didn’t stop his senses from screaming that there was danger. And that not-arousal feeling.

‘Dh’oine. Always so prone to hysterics. You’re shaking, you know?’

Fuck. He didn’t notice. That was bad, very bad. But he could at least save face.

‘It’s from—‘

‘—rage. Sure. Let’s pretend. Anything for my guest.’ The razor started moving again. Surprisingly proficient, considering the elves didn’t grow beards, Roche noticed in a detached, almost nonchalant manner—the mode he usually instinctively assumed during interrogations. ‘Coming back to your question—I personally have no practical use for you, but I suppose you and your merry bunch of beggars will be of use to certain... parties. And Vergen could use some influence over you, when you’ll sit on the fence, taking money and information from everybody and eagerly waiting to betray them all. So we’ll help you start your little “partisaning”. Give you, for free, some of the knowledge Scoia’tael bought by blood. Maps, hideouts, havekaren. But it isn’t the reason I helped you.’

Roche rolled his eyes. Typical elfish bullshit. Talking and talking, and talking, and talking some more without any conclusion. No surprise all their war efforts went nowhere. He would gladly make a remark or two in this vein, but the razor right at his Adam’s apple made him reconsider.

‘You killed so many of my comrades and non-human civilians as well. And you have but one life. It’s not enough to pay for all your crimes. But making sure you will live to see your country in a grave peril, your people enslaved, your home razed to the ground, making sure you’ll have to hide yourself in the forest and eat scraps, betraying and killing your own for the sake of some cruel political power—‘ Iorveth’s voice dripped with dark, twisted gentleness. Hunger. Desire. Roche knew this mix and this knowledge sent a shiver down his spine. ‘—which will betray you in the end, and you will know this but there won’t be any choice…. Making sure you’ll have to live through the whole irony of history, watching you sink just as low as we were forced to sink, watching you suffer—it still won’t be enough. But it will be a pleasure. And I haven’t experienced much of that in my life.’ The elf put the flat side of the razor’s blade under Roche’s chin, lifting his face. ‘I think I deserve some now.’

‘And for your whole life you wished for the career of a barber? I see,’ hissed Roche. Now, when the whole shameful ordeal was over, he finally found his tongue. ‘We primitive Dh’oine consider it a rather lowly profession, but—’

The blade turned, its edge again touching Roche’s skin. Well, he decided, emotions always mean progress. But then Iorveth laughed and took the razor away, throwing it onto the cloth, along with the other shaving things, and kicking them all into the corner of the room. A pity. Roche could use a blade in his hands.

‘Your kind seems to be biologically unable to feel grateful.’

For one moment Roche, who had been grateful to Foltest his whole damn life, lost his breath from rage. Then he snarled:

‘At least we are biologically able to reproduce themselves. Unlike some non-humans, facing extinction, because their males just _can’t._ ’ He glanced suggestively at Iorveth’s crotch. ‘I hope, for her own good, that Saskia really is a virgin who swore life-long celibacy...’

That earned him another slap to the face, this time quite hard. So, the rumours didn’t lie? Interesting.

‘I’m not some impotent elder, wasting his days in Dol Blathanna—’

‘—wasting their days with the most beautiful woman in this world? Jealousy, such a primitive—fuck!‘ Roche expected another slap, but Iorveth grabbed his balls and squeezed them painfully instead.

‘—And I would be more careful with your words if I were you. Everybody knows Dh’oine think only about sex. In the light of this common knowledge, I may come to the conclusion that you’re trying to flirt with me. In your typically crude way. And a good host should fulfil his guests’ desires.’

Roche felt a sudden wave of calmness washing over him. Channelling Iorveth’s obsession into intercourse would be the least emotionally draining outcome. He would vastly have preferred it if this option had opened earlier, but he would take what he had been given.

‘My desire? It’s your own lust, Iorveth. All these subconscious tricks wouldn’t fool a five-year-old raised in the temple.’ He threw his head back on the pillows, exposing his neck; speaking of tricks, this one usually worked. ‘So, unless the files I read forgot to mention that they cut off your balls in prison, go ahead and fuck me.’ In other words, ”let’s get it over with.” ‘Just don’t make me listen to your elfish bullshit and miserable attempts at politics any more.’

Iorveth squinted his eyes, which Roche’s experience told him was an attempt to use his irritation as a cover.

‘As much as I would like to repay you for the crimes Temerian forces committed on our women, you’re still unwell,’ Iorveth said finally. His thoughtfulness was very obviously fake. ‘I guess I’ll have to content myself with less.’

‘What did I tell you about sparing me your bullshit? What’s “less”? Handjob? Blowjob? Something else?’

‘Are you going to tell me the current price in orens, too? _Professionally_?’

Cold fury curdled the blood in Roche’s veins. And, as usual, made him deadly calm.

‘Look at you. You have all the advantages, all the power. You could do anything to me. And yet you’re still too afraid to call me a “whoreson” straight to my face, so you escape into allusions and think yourself so clever.’ He spoke calmly, steadily, almost monotonously; Iorveth seemed to be listening intensely, almost as though hypnotised. An instinct honed in prison, probably. You don’t want to let your attention slip when an interrogator is talking. ‘Well, you at least possess some sense of self-preservation. Because, Iorveth,’ he said, making his voice softer, darker, sweeter, like the honeydew, ‘if you ever try to call me that, if you dare to throw one more clever allusion, I’m going to kill you. Not today. Nor in this year or the next, for you’re absolutely right that Temeria could use some Scoia’tael knowledge. But one day, when you're feeling completely safe in your pretty Vergen rooms, I’ll slide from the shadows and shove your own severed cock down your throat. Understood?’

For a second, Iorveth seemed genuinely afraid. Memories, probably. Roche had seen moments like that, they sometimes came to even strongest soldiers. And to Ves—eh. Not just sometimes. Especially at the beginning.

Iorveth’s confusion lasted but a moment. Then he relaxed, and clapped slowly.

‘And who’s bullshitting now? But you did quite well, for a Dh’oine. So, just for the sake of adjusting our expectations: you're so enraged by the truth that if I call you what you are, you'll kill me. Understood. But if you dare to threaten me with your torturer’s tricks again, then before you die, I’ll make you regret you didn’t choose a career in Vizima’s brothels instead. Understood?’

It was a challenge, and Roche understood that well enough.. He snarled, baring his teeth, and threw a punch at Iorveth’s face. From the right, of course. Partly because of the, tactical advantage the elf’s disability provided, and partly because he was, in fact, more amused than angry, and so didn’t want to do any lasting damage. On the right side of Iorveth’s there was nothing left to lose—no teeth, no eye, skin already scarred, bones already broken.

Iorveth withstood the punch, grabbed Roche’s arm and tried to twist it. Roche answered with biting—he had never forgotten the lessons he'd learned on the streets—and suddenly they were fighting, wrestling rather, on this expensive-as-hell bed, tangled into an even nicer and more expensive quilt.

Ridiculous. Especially since each of them tried to not hurt the other too much. It made the whole fight seem... youthful. Playful. Like brawling with your friends in an inn, half-angry, half-happy, but fully drunk and knowing you all will be laughing about it the next morning. Or the next afternoon, depending on the harshness of the hangover.

Maybe it was this memory of camaraderie, or the shameful, lasting tension in his body, or exhaustion from the fight which had reminded him of all his wounds, or maybe just the need to dominate, plain and simple—for whatever reason, at the moment that Roche’s teeth met the pretty tattooed skin on Iorveth’s neck, he stopped biting and started kissing and sucking instead. Iorveth's skin tasted salty, and Roche's sudden disappointment made him want to laugh; what he had expected, really, if not the sweat? The bitterness of the ink, after all this time?

His punches and scratches mellowed into caresses, as his hands moved down along Iorveth’s body—bone after bone, muscle after muscle, scar after scar; he felt them even through the fabric—to his hips.

Iorveth grabbed his hair and yanked his head up, and for a moment it seemed he would push him back; but then the elf relaxed himself, slowly, with rough, painful kisses along Roche’s jaw and neck.

Their hands tangled messily, when they both were loosening Iorveth’s trousers—they weren’t tightly tied, but trying to simultaneously untie them and stroke his cock proved somehow too difficult a task for one person and Roche laughed, so absurdly innocent it seemed. Iorveth hissed, then, and put his hand over Roche’s throbbing cock. His strokes were rough and strong, almost painful, and the way he sometimes dug his nails in the flesh was painful definitely, but eh, he was in charge there. Roche wasn’t in a position to mind.

Besides, there was some sort of deep, innate satisfaction to be taken in pain, both feeling it and seeing it in others. He wouldn’t have been so good at his job, had he never experienced it.

And there was another satisfaction taken in seeing someone reacting to your touch in shivers of pleasure, not pain. Iorveth, by human standards, seemed calm even now, but Roche knew elves well enough to notice all the little details—the deeper, shakier breaths, the half-lidded eyes, the teeth biting at the lower lip. His grip on Roche's cock, tensing and relaxing. the sudden lack of words was an obvious hint, too.

Roche’s mouth came back to Iorveth's face, his tongue travelling along the lines of his scar. Such a sweet, satisfying thing. The wound had scarred badly, leaving the pink, glossy line—it felt slick to Roche’s tongue, like fresh, raw meat. Behind it he could feel the hollowness of Iorveth’s mouth, the ruins of his facial bones. And damn, this alone almost made him come.

Aroused by some wretched elf. He could hardly sink lower—and yet he did so immediately, despite some part of his own mind screaming at him that he was acting like a cheap whore.

‘Beautiful,’ he murmured, nibbling at Iorveth’s pointed ear. ‘The scars. Work of art. Such a pretty son of a bitch you still are, it’s unfair. So much wasted effort.’ He moved his teeth to Iorveth’s eyepatch—damn, those scars had to be incredible—

—the elf pushed him back and twisted Roche’s cock. He let out a gasp that he tried to form into a curse, looked at Iorveth’s suddenly pale, terrified face—and then came, his whole body jerking chaotically, his cursing voice weak and shaky between short, pained breaths.

Iorveth quickly returned to his usual composure and just watched Roche with a mask of detached, almost scientific interest on his face. He was still hard and Roche, thinking dimly that he should do something about it, for the sake of repaying the favour at least, gripped the elf’s cock again, slippery from sweat and precome.

‘You great Aen Seidhe and your inability to finish anything in a timely manner, your lives inclu—fuck!’ Iorveth had started playing with his still-oversensitive cock and balls. ‘Don’t!’

‘Why? You and your kind are always so proud of your constant reproductive readiness.’ He squeezed, hard, forcing another curse from Roche. ‘It’s fascinating, from a certain point of view. By the way, did I say you should stop?’

Roche gritted his teeth. Damn elves, their self-control, their sexual reticence that almost verged on impotence—and damn him for getting so shamefully excited by the whole situation.

The only good thing was that while Iorveth could talk all he wanted about “fascination”, It was clear to Roche that what he felt was more akin to "primitive Dh’oine arousal". He finished not much later, with a single spasm and a heavy sigh, which he tried to hide so poorly he bit his own lip.

Roche was left with a half-hard cock. Just when things had started to be pleasant again. But, eh, he could take care of it himself. If Iorveth would be kind enough to fall asleep or leave the room...

‘Well,’ said Iorveth. He composed himself quickly, pulling his trousers up and straightening his clothes. ‘I believe we were talking about politics before this... refreshing intermission. Let’s go back to the subject, shall we? There’re a few subjects we need to negotiate and your soldiers are dying—oh, I’m sorry, _metaphorically_ —to see you.’

Damn. Soldiers could be told his messy state if the result of the fighting, but Ves would see right through his excuses. He  _was_ fucked through and through. 


End file.
